She did not answer because she felt as helpless as a mere onlooker; because she could no more think of what to say or do than a baby in arms before some awful catastrophe about to envelop her. She found herself repeating silently that little prayer which had been once before her last refuge this fearful night. The second line she said over and over again: “I pray the Lord my soul to take. I pray the Lord my soul to take.” That other time the steel-bladed knife which she had brought to the shack as protection against Bud was the answer to her prayer. And now the prayer--or a certain temporary poise resulting from reliance on it--furnished her with another solution. In reality this answer sounded more like the voice of God than had the other. If the suggestion was daring, it was the sort of daring of which the Lord might be supposed to approve. And it was both simple and logical like most of the acts of God. Swiftly Roxie looked up and met Allston’s blue eyes. She could not in the shadows see much of them, but she felt them. They were steady and honest--of that she was sure. They were the sort of eyes that made it easier to tell the truth than to lie. And that was what the still, small voice advised. If she were being punished now for not having been honest, the only way she could redeem herself was from this moment on to tell the truth. God might not forgive altogether her first offense, but if the truth did not expiate it nothing would. No matter at what cost to her pride, to her instincts as a maiden, she must tell the truth. “Speak,” he commanded. So she spoke--her lips quivering. “It--it ain’t Bud I love, it’s--it’s you,” she stammered. “What?” he cried. “It’s you,” she stumbled on. “Oh, it’s allers been you. I couldn’ help it. I’m sorry.” Queer, feeble, jerky little sentences these through which to express as deep an emotion as that now shaking her--racking her. But they were the best she could do. And feeble though they were, they struck home to Allston like knife-thrusts. He felt weak after them. For he believed--at least that she believed. This explained a dozen facts that had been vague; a dozen facts that he had allowed to remain vague even when they aroused his suspicions, because he in his turn had refused to face the truth. It was clear to him now why she had come here; it was because of this love, to save him. No other explanation was big enough to make plausible her willingness to risk her honor on this night alone with Bud. And all the incidents that followed fitted in accurately and convincingly. Not for a second did Allston doubt her sincerity. And his big heart flamed up in response to the nobleness and heroism and idealism of the act--foolish as it was and as unworthy of it as he knew himself to be. “God!” he breathed. “What a wonderful woman you are!” “I couldn’ help it,” she moaned. “Bud--he said he’d kill yuh an’ he’d ’a’ done it too. An’ I thought--”